


new writings

by venndaai



Category: Kings (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, M/M, Politics, vague religious themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 06:37:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3164972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venndaai/pseuds/venndaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack and Michelle and David and the beginnings of a future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	new writings

**Author's Note:**

> I've been going through my old livejournal and finding fics I still like. I haven't watched the show in years, so I have no idea how in character it is. This is a fix-it set during the last episodes of the season.

He can't find her at first, and he begins to panic ten seconds before he turns a corner and she appears, tucked into an alcove, curled around herself, hands rubbing her feet vaguely. She looks fucked up. Can't have that, he thinks. “Sister,” he says. He sounds grave, to himself, sad but strong. Good.

She looks up. There are no tears, not yet. None of them have wept yet. He thinks it might be all right if she cried. The people expect her to be the soft one, the child- but she can't be a child forever. “Jack,” she says. He reaches out to her and they embrace, and it's very different from hugging David. David was just surprised and a bit lost; Michelle is tense, and taut for all her softness. “He's really dead,” she says, and after a moment, “Are we going to convene Council then?”

He smiles a bit at that. “Yes, but not just yet; I was wondering if we could maybe talk for a few minutes, in private. I'm sure you're still in shock.”

She tosses her head up at that, like she wants to be outraged and cutting, but maybe she sees it in his eyes; maybe she's just getting better at thinking before she acts. Maybe his advice got through. More likely it's Shepherd's influence. “Of course, of course. Good idea.”

Her eyes still widen when the door to his bedroom suite opens narrowly to reveal David's hunched, nervous form. Jack shoves her in unceremoniously and holds the door nearly shut, giving a sharp word to Stu and shooing away assorted functionaries before slipping in himself. He nearly slams the door, remembering himself at the last moment and shutting it gently, relaxing when he hears the click and tumble of the lock.

Michelle has not rushed to her boyfriend's side. They're sitting a few feet away, David on the bed- on Jack's bed- and Michelle on the ottoman. They're looking at each other, and Jack can't read their gaze. He tells himself to focus, and sits on the couch, completing their little triangle. “We really do only have a few minutes, so talk fast.” He can't tell what he sounds like now. Tired, probably.

“Did you know about the assassination?” asks David. His hands on the coverlet are very still. Jack can't help watching them, knowing that if he answers this wrong David will probably kill him. The cocker spaniel is still loyal beyond all sense or reason. Jack hopes to turn that loyalty. It must be done carefully.

“No,” he replies, and he forces himself to look David in the eyes. They're blue and very pretty and lost but not at all helpless. He tries to put honesty into his words. “I admit I did know about the plot. I was not told it would happen like this.”

Michelle says nothing, but a small breath escapes her, a sigh or a gasp or something.

“Who is our enemy?” says David. One of his hands finds Michelle's, and they smile at each other. Stupid lovebirds.

“William Cross. He wants war. Crossgen's heavily invested in the military-industrial complex.” He looks at them both. “He wants war, I don't. I'm not going to let it happen.”

“No.” Michelle speaks. “You can't go against him right away. He'll turn you into a puppet. I know you, Jack; you're too hotheaded. Wait.”

“For what?” he asks, frustrated.

“A public speech,” David suggests. “But not today. Wait, and we'll make sure of our support. We might need to bring in the army, if your uncle really does control Shiloh. And Michelle can talk to the Court. Cross isn't the only powerful interest there is.”

“And what do I do?”

“Talk to Mother,” says Michelle. “Get her on our side. I think you can convince her. And you don't know how powerful an ally she can be, when she's determined, which is always.” She smiles ruefully, and Jack laughs a little, and suddenly they're siblings again and things are all right.

“We can offer Cross a deal,” says David, and so they have a plan. It's a stupid plan, all things considered, but it's a lot better than Jack on his own sans plan plus anger issues.

“Okay,” says Jack, and stands up, loosening his collar a bit. “Remember we've just had a very cathartic little chat about our shared grief.” He strides purposefully toward the door and then stops, because there's a photograph on the dresser, that must have been put there by his mother. It's Jack and Michelle when they were both little and nearly identical, before Michelle's illness, and Silas is holding Michelle in the crook of one powerful arm, patting Jack paternally on the head with the other.

A hand slips into his, and he's looking into Michelle's face, and he sees for the first time that she actually can be strong, and for the first time he has hope.

He pretends not to notice as they exit the way David picks up the framed photograph, the reverent way he holds it, callused fingertips brushing the dark outline of the young king.

He does make a point of slinging an arm around David's shoulder as they exit, before pulling away to hold Michelle's hand again. They need to be seen as a family. As a royal family. His father called David a son (though it made Jack's heart sting), before the king's... period of inadvised decisions. Jack will tie himself to those words. Every bit helps when it comes to legitimizing the succession.

 

* * *

 

“My father's death,” Jack says, “will not go unpunished. We must meet force with force. We cannot be weak, even at this time of terrible loss. I leave it to my advisor William Cross to explain our future policy.”

William nods approvingly, but Jack is looking elsewhere for approval. Michelle smiles at him. David appears lost in thought. Jack stares at the patterns in the smoothed and glazed wood of the council table. He knows this is the right thing, if not the honorable thing. But the feeling is extraordinarily similar to that of prosecuting David. There was a time when he lived to lie. That life, he thinks, probably died with Joseph. Remembering makes him feel somewhat nauseous. He hopes he doesn't throw up in front of his new subjects. He looks at his mother. She seems to have come out of her shock enough to see that Jack is only a puppet. He can see the impotent fury bubbling away in her eyes. That's got to be turned to constructive use, or else it may destroy them all.

He's very tired. He looks out the big wide windows, at the city, and remembers that he did ask for this.

William puts his hands on Jack's shoulders, and Jack can hear David suck in a sharp breath.

 

* * *

 

“You saved my life,” David repeats, later, when they're alone. Dawn is breaking over Shiloh, rosy light spilling into the palace. Jack feels caught by these structures of shining wood and glass, but that's nothing new. He has to admit things are slightly different now. It's the same feeling as having one's arms bound at one's side. There's a possibility the binding will be cut, and then for a few seconds he will have the illusion of flight.

“Yes,” Jack says, because he's vaguely aware the silence has gone on a moment too long, then, “we're still not even, of course.”

“Yes, we are,” says David, and he catches Jack's arm, and the feeling of invisible coils evaporates under the immediacy of human touch. “Don't feel you have any kind of debt to me. Sir.”

Jack hates that 'sir'. David must know what a lie it is. Insult, almost. It's not 'sire'. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

“You saved me twice,” Jack argues.

“And yesterday I wanted to live,” David counters. He's doing that thing, where he gets all intense, and it's so apparent in his strong voice every particle of what he is. Jack doesn't think he has ever met anyone more honest than David Shepherd. _I will not repeat my father's mistakes._

There are other things he should ask, like whether David thinks he is in fact the rightful King, but Jack's head is crowded enough. “You have work to do.”

“Yes, sir,” and this time it feels less like a lie and more like respect for a superior officer.

Jack wishes he were back on the front, because at least there you knew where the shells were coming from, most of the time.

 

* * *

 

He visits Shiloh's military cemetery, puts a pebble on the tombstone of Joseph Lasille. He wants to say something like “I'm sorry”, or “I loved you.” The words that came so painfully during his fight with his mother seem to have vanished after being spoken. It's another sign, that something once buried can disappear forever, absorbed into the bloodied, fertile ground.

He wonders where they're going to bury his father.

 

* * *

 

“We really did use to tell each other everything.”

“I don't think that's really an option any more,” Jack says. “Is there anyone who knows all your secrets?”

Michelle doesn't answer, just leans further against him. He strokes her hair, hesitantly, afraid he's forgotten how to perform the action.

“At least we can mourn together.”

“Can we?” He's never seen her gaze turned this inward before, not since her remission. “I don't know. I'm not sure I love him any more.”

“Really? He loved you.” There's bitterness there. An ocean of it. Not tonight. _I will not repeat the sins of my father._

“He smothered me with love. He treated me like a child. He tried to murder David with all he had. Actually I hate him. Why are you laughing?”

Jack tries to get himself back under control. It's not a nice laugh at all, or even a particularly sane one. “Nothing, it's just- David must be the only person in this whole country who doesn't hate the old bastard.” It's kind of hilarious.

“What about Mother?”

“Oh, she hates him too.” He can't help it, he's giggling again. “We're Benjamins, sister dear. Hate and love are practically the same thing, for us.”

She looks like she wants to disagree with that. Instead she snaps her jaw shut. The anger is flickering in her eyes, stronger than ever. He wants to tell her he's proud of her but he's afraid he doesn't mean it. Or maybe he's afraid he does.

 

* * *

 

He passes Queen Rose in the corridor. Her long legs are crossed, her hands are in her lap. She appears bowed in thought. Her white dress is still stained by her husband's blood.

Jack walks past her, boots clicking on the polished floor, and neither of them say a word.

 

* * *

 

By nightfall everyone has heard of the disappeared body, the empty ambulance.

The old king is alive.

They whisper it, the guards at the gate, the servers, the functionaries. Thomasina's absence is very different from her usual silences. Jack takes to watching for movement out of the corner of his eye. More than before.

His uncle becomes very loud and very angry, and then he quiets, and Jack has just enough time to feel a rush of sick fear before his uncle draws the nearby guard's weapon and shoots the Minister of Agriculture three times in the head. The blood splashes all over David's uniform. Jack looks at David and David looks back, steadily, and Jack begins to feel dizzy. He manages to hold out for another thirty seconds, until after William Cross has stalked out of the council room, and then he runs. He doesn't quite make it, ends up vomiting on a bathroom floor.

David and Michelle are there. David's removed the bloodstained jacket, looks pure and clean in his starched white undershirt. They're at his side, Michelle cleaning up the mess with towels in her own perfect hands, David's fingers a warm presence on Jack's back- not the shoulders, never the shoulders- he throws up again, in the sink this time, retches and chokes until there's nothing but bile left in his stomach. David rubs small circles along his spine. Jack leans his arms on the edge of the sink and tries to avoid meeting his own eyes in the mirror.

 

* * *

 

His mother's eyes are viciously triumphant, though her hands have begun to shake.

 

* * *

 

Jack makes his first press appearance as king apparent at ten o'clock outside Unity Hall, with David by his side. Jack does most of the talking. He doesn't think it would be a good idea to let Shepherd try and come up with good lies.

In the cold morning air, David is a warm, silent presence. It could be comforting- why did it have to happen like this?

 

* * *

 

Michelle does not greet them afterward, but her face is present among a sea of hostile eyes. She is bright and almost hopeful and suffused with a love that pains Jack to look at.

 

* * *

 

Jack slams David against the wall of Michelle's bedroom. “You know,” he says. “You know where he is.”

“Jack,” Michelle says. Warningly. He's well aware, thank you sister dear.

David nods, as much as he is able to with Jack's hands around his throat.

“Are you going to go back to him?”

His voice is a hoarse whisper. “Only if you fail.”

Jack's hands drop, and Shepherd slumps to the floor. “What makes you think I haven't already?”

 

* * *

 

He's almost forgot about Lucinda, he's had so much else to worry about lately. No; that's a lie. Her big dark eyes haunt him on the edge of sleep. She is awkward and obvious, getting in the way, getting discarded and left in odd places. Three days after the first speech she finally manages to find him, standing against one of the tall windows, imagining what it would be like to fly, whether it would be any better than falling.

She hands him a piece of folded paper. “Invitations,” she says. “I didn't like the old ones.”

He turns to look at her. Rose carefully arranged her wardrobe, her makeup; perhaps she does so still. Lucinda Wolfson looks like a doll, her dress somehow innocent, girlish, her face entirely guileless. He reaches out, strokes her hair. It's thickly textured, yet soft. “You know what I am,” he murmurs.

Her eyes flicker, up, down. She nods, very slightly. Her hair slides between his fingers.

“And you still love me.”

She looks up, and her eyes are terrified. Yes, they say, yes. A thousand yeses he can see foretold, a future of nods and dark eyes and bright images cut inexpertly from glossy magazines with safety scissors. He turns away.

After a moment he can sense her move up next to him, and he follows her gaze out across the dark landscape, the high places of Gilboa and the soft rolling hills of the Southland light in the distance. He wonders what she is seeing, if she is thinking of her family, or of something else he cannot even begin to guess at.

“I've made my choices,” she says quietly. “I will stand beside you.”

She leaves after that, as quietly as she arrived.

 

* * *

 

Some time in the middle of the night, the skies open and it begins to hail.


End file.
